April Showers
by Psychomech
Summary: Is House capable of change, or is he too far gone? Do you really think it'd be as easy as crying on people's shoulders and apologizing to Wilson? A Mayfield fic.
1. Chapter 1

After reading a few fics in which House's only lines were gasping sobs and apologies to Wilson, I decided it was my duty to write a Mayfield fic. I'd forgotten that it'd require time, effort, and maybe a plot. Forgive me, but I've never been to medical school. I didn't even pay attention in Biology. I also don't own nor make any claims to _House MD_. As always, please review!

* * *

His room was tiny and completely impersonal. The walls were a blue-tinted white, the linoleum had a speckled eggshell pattern, and both his window and bathroom were absurdly small. The furniture consisted of an armchair and a bed, but it was suggested he could get a nightstand in the future. The sheets on the bed were cool and fresh-scented as a result of being washed regularly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd washed his sheets at home, but he missed sleeping on sheets that smelled familiar. He also missed his piano, his cane, Cuddy's ass, playing pranks on Wilson, and having more than three changes of clothes. The only thing familiar to him was Amber and he'd give her up in a heartbeat.

Now that he knew she would never leave, she was usually by his side; the faithful rabid rottweiler of his subconscious. He was laying on his bed, arms behind his head, trying not to think of anything important. Amber, he knew, was sitting cross-legged on the floor playing with her hair.

"There's a bird outside," she commented, turning her head to squint out the bright window. House could hear it but did not reply. He knew the only reason she knew there was a bird outside was because he could hear it. She stood up and walked to the window, shielding her eyes and peering through the netting in the glass. "I can't see what kind of bird." House heard the bird give a definitive cry. "Just a Blue Jay," Amber sighed, leaning against the wall and beginning to pick at a split end. House continued to stare unwaveringly at the ceiling.

"Dr. House," called Ryan, his black nurse, through the gap in the propped open door. There was very little privacy here. Doors were always open and everybody was encouraged to share themselves. House elbowed himself upright and hefted his bad leg to slide it off the edge of the bed. Ryan walked in holding a paper cup of pills. His eyes looked tired, his face was moist, and his hands were shaking from too much caffeine. The edge of House's mouth lifted.

"Did you touch them?" House asked, leaning on the edge of the bed frame for support.

"What?"

"Did you touch my pills?" House asked again, drawing out each word. Nurse Ryan looked confused, probably expecting a racist comment. House sighed dramatically. "You obviously spent breakfast huddled over the porcelain express and you had that ink on your hand yesterday, which means you don't wash your hands." The nurse's eyes flicked to an ink mark on his index finger. "In my medical opinion, I recommend hair of the dog," House advised, snatching the pills and throwing them down expertly. "We can share a few shots on your lunch break. You bring the vodka."

The nurse shot House a sheepish smile as he handed back his paper cup, a smile that reminded House of Kutner. "Have a good afternoon, House," he said as he walked out, veering toward the staff bathroom. House frowned and climbed back onto the bed, putting his arms behind his head again and closing his eyes.

"I'm bored," Amber complained. House heard her lab coat rustle as she moved away from the wall. "When are you going to give up and go home, House? I miss our own bed." She knew that if he gave up, he'd never practice medicine again. She was just broadcasting doubts that had accumulated since he'd arrived here.

"Stop rationalizing, House. Wilson does it much better," she scoffed, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Speaking of Wilson, do you think he's married again yet? The psych nurse was looking promising, wasn't she?" Amber faced him with a look of concern. "Do you think they'd let us out to be best man?"

House pushed his arm under the pillow and turned on his side, away from Amber. He closed his eyes and fished for a mental distraction. Grave Digger was revving up to obliterate five cars when he heard Amber lay down behind him. He opened his eyes and looked down at her arm draped over his ribcage, her delicate fingertips brushing against his blue T-shirt. An image of Amber and Wilson laying like this flashed through his mind. He closed his eyes again and forced his mind back to Grave Digger, mentally watching as windshields popped and glass sprayed. Grave Digger was only making his way around the stadium again before House dozed off, the sound of Amber's breath in his ear.

* * *

House slowly woke, feeling as if he was being watched. Since it wasn't night, the doors were still open. He cracked open his eyes and looked toward the doorway, where a blurry form confirmed his suspicion. It wasn't uncommon for patients to occassionally wander into other rooms, though it wasn't encouraged. It was felt that the space of each patient should be respected, despite the no closed doors policy. House turned his head away from the door, groggily hoping the intruder would piss off if they realized he was asleep. He was drifting off when he heard the shuffling of slippers across the floor. His head still aimed away from the door, he opened his eyes. And found himself staring right into Amber's.

"What?" he mumbled at both of them, frowning. Amber only smiled sadly and propped her head on her hand. House pushed himself into a sitting position and turned toward the intruder.

"Uh," began the intruder, who turned out to be a middle-aged woman wearing a sundress. "You're awake?"

"Do I _look_ awake?" snapped House, reaching forward to massage his leg.

The woman chuckled nervously. "Well, I... I noticed you watch _Prescription: Passion_. I just... wanted to see if you knew it was on." She tugged on the sash of her dress as House looked her up and down. Approximately fifty years old, salt and pepper hair. Sundress, farm animal slippers, and unshaven legs with visible varicose veins. Probably admitted for bipolar disorder, based on the pink thunderbolt tattoo by her left ankle and the self-mutilation scars on her left arm. The silence grew longer and she turned away, obviously unnerved by House's piercing gaze.

"Okay," House said, grabbing his leg.

"I think the baby is David's," Amber said musingly, perched on the arm of the green couch House was slowly limping toward. House narrowed his eyes and grabbed the back of the couch as pain glanced down his thigh.

"Ruin the surprise," he muttered, flinging himself onto the cushion beside his intruder.

"What?" asked the middle-aged woman. House dragged his eyes from Amber's self-satisfied smirk.

"My hallucination thinks the baby is David's," he informed her, putting his feet up on the plastic table in front of the couch and monitoring her reaction from the corner of his eye.

She looked stunned. "David? I thought Dr. Warren was the father." House was just opening his mouth when she said, "Oh, but he was in jail when Melissa conceived, wasn't he? He didn't get out until two months after."

"A month and a half," Amber piped up, stretching out on another couch. House unconsciously angled his head to listen. "Tell her Melissa's having quadruplets. She was on fertility meds, remember?"

House raised his eyebrows and glanced at his soap companion, who was sitting on the other side of the couch with her legs tucked under her. "Melissa's having quadruplets."

Suddenly, the woman looked annoyed. "Stop that," she snapped, surprisingly not making eye contact with House, but looking at Amber's couch instead. House glanced at Amber, whose mouth was hanging open.

"What?"

"You're ruining things for me," she said, flipping the channel to the end credits of the soap before _Prescription: Passion_. "Part of the fun is figuring out the ties."

"_I_ am over here. You were facing _over there_." If House had his cane, he'd have pointed it at the neighboring sofa.

"That's where your hallucination is, isn't it?" The woman was now acting as if this didn't require explanation. "You tilted your head to listen." House had, but just barely.

"Perceptive," Amber said, a hint of admiration in her tone. "I like her."

"And you decided to talk to _my_ hallucination?" House monitored the woman carefully, but she still didn't seem the least bit disturbed. She must have been here a while, he deduced, so she was probably crazier than she seemed. "Interesting." The theme began and a busty brunette in scrubs appeared onscreen.

* * *

"So, Greg, how was your day?" asked his blonde psychologist, Dr. Sheila Browning, beginning their ritual.

House stretched his legs in front of him and shrugged. "The food here sucks." House remembered the first day he'd said that, shaking from the tail end of detox.

"You say that every day."

"The food always sucks."

The shrink smiled and leaned forward, her suit coat gaping open to reveal a blue V-neck and a hint of cleavage. "You've been here for a week and a half and you've undergone rapid detox. Do you feel there has been any improvement in your condition?"

"If I say yes, do I get phone calls?"

"You may have visitors and telephone privileges after you've been here for two weeks," recited Dr. Browning for approximately the fiftieth time.

"Something has definitely improved," he said, massaging his leg. He glanced up and saw the eagerness in Browning's posture.

"Yes?"

"Your breasts. Are you pregnant or just wearing an underwire?"

"Cuddy wears an underwire," Amber chimed in, sapping every ounce of fun from the conversation. She smiled angelically, knowing it.

"Greg," began the exasperated shrink, "you have to be aware that unless you let us help you, you won't be able to lead a normal life. Genius and a disregard for societal norms aren't going save you here. You have to let us do our jobs so you can go back to doing yours."

"She has a point, House," said Amber. "You want to go back to Princeton-Plainsboro, don't you?"

"I've already tried whining on somebody's couch and that was before I was seeing dead people. _You_ want to figure me out to validate the article that was rejected from Psychology Today."

Browning remained firm. "No. I want to figure you out because it's my job and I do my job well."

"She can talk the talk, but can she walk the walk?" Amber asked, sitting down in a chair in the corner of the room and crossing her mile-long legs.

"Most of your patients never permanently leave the psychiatric circuit. You call that doing your job _well_?" House searched for any sign that his jibes affected her.

"All of the patients here, yourself included, have serious mental illnesses which prevent them from functioning normally in everyday life. If a patient of mine is able to hold a job and have positive social interaction for a year or two before being re-admitted then _yes_, I consider that doing my job well."

House tilted his head. She cared about what she was doing. "Okay," he said anti-climatically.

Browning didn't seem to have expected agreement. She tugged on an earring, apparently collecting her thoughts. "So," she finally said, "_do_ you feel there has been any improvement?"

"I'm off Vicodin, but I'm still hallucinating. Everything on the list has been ruled out." A pause. "And I'm in pain."

"We'll get to the pain in a moment. You had a list?"

"Yeah."

"What was on it?" Browning leaned forward, jotting something down and looking at him with clinical interest. House stood up and began pacing to take his mind off of his leg.

"Sleep apnea," House said, watching her write it down, "crossed off after a night in the sleep lab. Infection, ruled out by a blood test. A lumbar puncture took MS off the table. Insulin shock ruled out mental illness."

"Insulin shock? You injected yourself with insulin?"

"Duh," he said, using the backs of the chairs in lieu of his cane, "I would've injected myself with bourbon, but I haven't heard of that being an effective treatment for schizophrenia."

Browning's mask of professionalism didn't waver. "Were there any side effects?"

"Couldn't remember how to do up my pants." House stopped pacing and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "I could forget again. Do you have a storage closet around here?"

"I'm married," she said dismissively, flipping through his file. "As for the pain, I'll have to consult your doctor, but methadone seems like a good choice." She looked up.

House looked at her for a moment before glancing at Amber, noting that Browning followed his gaze. Amber sat in the antique chair with a half-smile, the setting sun coming through the windows behind Browning giving her a warm look. She cocked her head and raised an eyebrow.

"I'll stick to my Asprin." He turned and left.


	2. Chapter 2

I don't own nor do I make any claims to _House MD_.

* * *

House leaned through the gap in his doorway and took a look around. There were a few patients on the couches watching television and another at a table working on a sculpture, but they looked absorbed in what they were doing. No staff. All clear. House limped as casually as he could toward the locked double doors that separated the common room from the short hallway leading to reception. He peeked through the window in the door, seeing only light at the end of the hallway. He moved to the very edge of the window and crouched, the middle-aged receptionist coming into his field of vision. She was peering through her glasses at the computer screen, chewing on her lip.

House heard somebody shuffle over and squat next to him. "Hey," said Michael, the paranoid schizophrenic who roomed two away from House. "What're you looking at?" Michael glanced out the window and then at House.

"Her," House said, nodding toward the receptionist. Michael shoved his face into the glass and looked at the oblivious receptionist.

"My dog has hair like hers," Michael mentioned, putting a hand on the floor to steady himself. "Y'know, sorta brown and curly."

"Mark," House said, ignoring Michael's previous statement and leaning forward conspiratorially. "She's putting something in our food."

"Hah," Michael said shakily, "you're crazier than I am." Nevertheless, he glanced out the window again with concern. "Like, what do you think she's--"

"I don't know," House said, sitting down heavily as the strain on his leg became unbearable.

"Well, I dunno, could I like-- like, if I distracted her and you could check out her purse. To make sure, right?" With his head angled toward his chest, House smiled his best evil smile. He struggled back to his feet, wondering if he'd tell somebody that Michael's medication needed to be adjusted. "Wait," Michael said, standing up, "this isn't like, a break-out thing, is it?"

"Nope," House said succinctly. "Go. Distract. I'll check out the purse."

"And report back."

"_Annnd_ report back," House confirmed.

Five minutes later, House was pulling open the double doors that he'd taped a marker lid to the night before. He limped down the hallway and slid into the receptionist's chair, putting his feet up on her half-circle desk. He picked up the phone and dialed Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, keying in the extension for the Diagnostics Department. He idly wondered at his team's reaction to seeing Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital on the caller ID.

"Diagnostics," came Foreman's voice. He didn't sound utterly bored, so they had a case, but he didn't sound rushed, so it wasn't pressing yet.

"Whassup, homies?"

"House?" Taub asked, apparently surprised.

"You have other friends in the nuthouse?" House asked, twirling the phone cord between his fingers. Taub was silent for a second, so House seized the opportunity. "By "whassup", I meant 'what are the symptoms'."

"How do you know we have a patient?" Foreman asked. House heard the rustle of Foreman's well-tailored suit and knew he'd leaned forward in response to a verbal challenge.

"I know all," House said ominously, then launched onto a different tack in a split-second. "Is Thirteen under the table or is she actually with the patient?"

"Under the table," came Thirteen's voice. "Why are you calling, House?"

"You know they're making all sorts of 'meaningful eye contact' over there," Amber said with disdain, sitting on the counter and smoothing out her blue pencil skirt. "They might even think you miss them."

House flipped through the receptionist's contact book. "Because I want to know the _patient's symptoms_."

"We're asking if you're allowed to be on the phone," Taub stated plainly.

House grabbed one of the receptionist's magazines. "Find His Hotspots" proclaimed the cover. "If I play nicely, I get phone privileges. What are the symptoms?"

"Pericarditis, joint pain--" began Thirteen.

"House!" cried the returning receptionist, dashing over and snatching the phone from him.

"But _Mo-oom_," whined House, making a grab for the phone, "she was just taking off her underwear!"

The receptionist shot him a look of disbelief and held the phone to her ear. "Hello? Who is this? I'm sorry, but Dr. House is in no state to--"

"Polyarteritis nodosa!" House shouted, standing up and throwing down the magazine. "Cancer!" The receptionist turned her back to him and shoved her finger in her ear.

"No, he doesn't have telephone privileges yet--"

"Whipple's," Amber suggested.

"Not Whipple's!" House bellowed over the receptionist's shoulder. She reached over the desk and hung up the phone loudly. Her back still facing House, she took several deep, calming breaths. She turned in time to see the double doors swinging almost shut, the marker lid taped to the edge of one hindering its closure.

* * *

House stood in the corner of the large common room, in front of two massive book shelves. Marion, the woman who'd woken him for _Prescription: Passion_, sat cross-legged on the floor, reading the back of a romance novel. It was just after dinner and the sun was shining through the sheer beige curtains, giving everything an orange glow.

"He set himself on fire," House said, grabbing a book from the shelf.

Marion didn't look up. "Apparently he stole a lighter from a nurse's pocket. He kept screaming that Mrs. Hartway was poisoning his food." She replaced the book on the shelf and plucked out another, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"House, we need to talk," Amber said, leaning with her arms crossed against the book shelf. House glanced briefly at her and then down to the book in his hand.

"It was a bit like the Burning Man," Marion said, clutching her book and standing. "Fire and shouting." House almost grinned, entertained by the woman's unpredictability. "I've got 'The Pleasure Slave'. What have you got?"

House looked down. "'The Wolf and the Dove.'"

"House!" Amber said loudly.

"I've read that one," Marion said, heading toward a set of plush flowered armchairs. "I've heard they're going to fire the guy with the lighter. Are you going to come sit with me?" Marion gestured to the chair across from hers, the one with a pink rose pattern.

"Are you going to start doing the dirty?" House raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Marion tucked her feet into the space between the cushion and the chair frame. "No."

"Then nope," House said, turning and shuffling toward his room. Amber stayed on his heels, white coat billowing, until he knocked away the prop and shut his door.

"We need to talk about Cuddy." Amber sat down in the chair next to his bed and crossed her legs.

House sat down on his tiny bed and pulled his bad leg up. "Been there, haven't done that."

Amber smirked. "But you want to do that," she said, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward. "We both know that even when you get out of here, you're just going to keep making comments about her ass and brushing off any concern she shows for you."

"_When_ did my subconscious get so annoying?" House asked, irritated.

"Probably when you checked us into the loony bin," Amber brushed off his deflection. "Cuddy wants you. We want Cuddy. I always get what I want."

"You aren't Cut-throat Bitch," House stated, "you're a hallucination of Cut-throat Bitch designed by my mind out of some misplaced sense of guilt."

Light twinkled in Amber's eyes as she smiled. "Do you really believe that anymore, House?"

"You think I think you're really Amber?" House asked with disbelief. "If you were, you'd still be making sex tapes with Wilson."

Amber smiled and stood, coming within inches of him before dropping to her knees. House watched as she reached under the bed and stood again, looking at him expressionlessly. As she sat in the chair, House noticed she had a Rubix cube in her hand. Staring at him with large blue eyes, she began twisting sections.


End file.
